


The Interstates Are Waiting

by rabbitprint



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Human Impala, Vehicular Existentialism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, a human!Impala short. Minor S2 spoilers. Impala has a long road behind her, and an even longer one ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Interstates Are Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by http://castiels-fluffy-feathers.tumblr.com/post/47100321423.

She rolls into the asphalt lot at a quarter past three on the bad side of morning, her hips loose and jangling from exhaustion, joints grinding with each thump of her boots against the ground. The glow of the McDonald's lights is a welcoming mecca; twin arches rise above the fog. She'd been following their lighthouse gleam for what felt like miles, chasing down the benevolent golden haze through overpasses and sidelanes. The destination feels surreal now that it's here, but they've arrived.

The kids are eager and squirming to be let down, and Impala dutifully digs crumpled, sweaty bills out of her pockets, wadded together like grimy truck stop receipts. _Two_ of them are eager to run free, at least; Castiel clings to her leg for as long as it takes to get Dean off her shoulder without getting an elbow in her eye. The second Dean hits pavement, Castiel does too, detaching from her like a begrudging clam.

The kids leave patches of cold air where their bodies have been. She swats Castiel's wing as he totters by, feathered rudders waddling along behind him. Dean's already off like a shot, racing for the McDonald's doors while Sam scrambles gamely to catch up.

She flops down on the asphalt, graceless and uncaring. She's a mess from carrying the kids for hours straight, state to state, and now she's parched for a drink. Dust from the road coats her throat in one long sandpapery trail. The rubber of her boots is soft and worn. Dean will be a good kid; he'll bring her back a soda. Sam will fuss. And stick in the bathroom _way_ too long, washing up with paper towels at the sink, impatient for the showers all four of them need to have.

No rest for the weary. Wasn't that how the saying went? No: for the _wicked._ Maybe both. Maybe that's why all the demons they've run into lately look as tired as Impala feels; they're all pulling overtime with no chance for vacation.

She can feel heat coming off her in waves, ripples of temperature that combat the pre-dawn chill. If she cools down too much, the kids will whine when they get back, pat sticky palms along her arms and legs until she gets energy back into her bones and starts moving again. No rest. No rest.

John won't be back for her. It hurts knowing that, and it'll hurt for a long while yet. He'll never be back, but she can take care of his kids for as long as she can keep running -- down to the very last smack of boot-rubber on asphalt, carrying all of them faithfully to wherever they need to go.

No rest.

Normally she'd be nervous about letting the boys go in without her, but the windows of the McDonald's are dilated as wide as an addict's pupils. She can see their heads bobbing through the glass. Dean's already got a table set up, reigning over the trays like the King of French Fries. She can only hope they stocked enough ketchup.

Just as Impala's started to slip into the edge of exhaustion, her senses getting dull and cold, another traveler prowls into the parking lot. He moves slowly, wheeling in lazy arcs across the pavement, giving her plenty of time to get him in her sights. The stranger's wearing dark glasses even at night, but when he catches her scowl, he flips them down long enough to give her a flash of grey eyes. Trying to be charming, maybe. All she cares about is that he's not showing yellow. Or black.

"CNK 80Q3," he reads off her buckle when he gets close enough.

She flips her bangs out of her face in an abbreviated greeting back. There's a plate on his belt too, so he's a licensed carrier. The corner of his jacket's over the front, so she can't get a good look at all the numbers, but it's got the green of New Hampshire. Live free or die: that old, stupid motto. Someone should inform the state that dying isn't always an escape.

There's no sign of the man's cargo, so she sizes him up based on his body instead. The jacket's leather. Boots are barely scuffed. She can't identify his ethnicity. Dark eyes, heavy brow; could be Italian, but his skin's fair and freckled. Some sort of Euro hybrid -- which is insulting slang, probably, but she can't keep up with conventions these days. Taking care of the kids has her traveling so much, and Dean always wants to listen to old bands instead of the news.

She can be civil enough in tongue, at least. "Just Impala's fine."

" _Just_ Impala?" The word tips out of the stranger's mouth in slow, staccato syllables. He grins like he's just lapped up a whole bowl of chocolate pudding. "Pretty name. It suits you."

The compliment goes to Impala's head in a champagne tickle -- and, just like champagne, it evaporates away within a heartbeat. Flattery's sweet when she can get it. Doesn't mean she gives a damn about the lack of it. It's hard to tell how much she cares about the stranger's opinion; mostly, she's wondering if she can get away with picking at her clothes. Her shorts are digging into her crotch something fierce.

She gives up on dignity and adjusts herself, hooking her fingers along her thighs and tugging at the sweaty denim. After a whuffing sigh, she kicks out her heels and stares at her boots moodily, wondering how soon it'll be until her blisters break, and she'll have to send Dean to get antibac gel before an infection digs in solid.

Euro boy squats down on the asphalt. "How many are you carrying?" he asks, not without sympathy.

"Three."

The stranger whistles, long and admiring. "And you're still on the move?"

"Close enough." Bristling reflexively from the implied criticism, Impala glances towards her kids. Dean's graduated on past dominion of the fries; now he's stuffing what looks like Sam's hamburger into his mouth, with Castiel looking on mournfully.

When she looks back, she sees the stranger squinting at them too.

"If you touch my children, I'll kill you," she informs him, matter-of-fact, even though she hasn't seen any evidence from him yet that he's a demon's ride.

"Ease up, ease up, pretty lady," he replies placatingly; she considers punching him anyway. "I'm not here for your cargo. I've just never carried that many passengers before." He rocks back on his heels, plants his hands on the ground with an uncertainty that reminds her how _young_ his line probably is. "Everyone I've talked to says it _ruins you_. Makes you old too early, wears you out, breaks you down. How if you take a family, it's the end of you -- you won't be good for anything else after that. How can that really be worth it?"

She hesitates before answering, and as she does, Euro boy's eyes make another critical pass over her. This time, she knows exactly what he's studying: the ripped jeans, the scruff of her hair cut short for practicality, the initials of S.W. and D.W. inked out in clumsy lines on her skin. The pentacle protecting her heart. Depreciated value, that's how some estimators would summarize it. Impala may be in good shape, but she wears her age on her like a coat; no one would be interested in her but a collector. There won't be any jobs waiting for her as retirement.

"You want to be some rich asshole's showtoy, you go on ahead," she answers bluntly. "But _I'm_ here to take care of my passengers. And if it saps everything out of me, that's a sign I'm doing it _right._ Because what else are we here for, if not _them_ ," she adds, jerking her head towards the McDonald's sanctuary, where her kids are bouncing and rioting over the salt packets.

She says it for John. She says it for _herself._

"When all's said and done, do you want to say you ground down your treads ferrying someone to their groceries once a week? Or would you rather be proud when there's nothing left of you because _every inch_ got spent making sure your passengers grew up safe and strong? That every scratch and scar you got, it's one less _they_ had to carry on themselves? You wear yourself down, it's not shame. _It's the point._ "

Euro boy opens his mouth and closes it again, looking like a particularly humbled fish that had been startled out of its bowl.

"I'll get you some water for the road," he offers, pushing himself up to his feet.

"You do that," she says smugly. "Make it a double."

* * *

The boys wander back at half past four, on the good side of morning, bellies full with grease and salted meats. There's a ketchup stain on the sleeve of Castiel's coat. He's pouting at it solemnly, rubbing clumsy fingers against the cloth to make it fade, but his powers aren't working fast enough to satisfy.

"There, there," Impala soothes, scooping up the angel. She wets her thumb with spit and daubs at the crimson smudge. It doesn't fix anything, but it distracts him. "You want to ride shotgun, Cas?"

" _No_ ," Dean butts in stubbornly, clambering up her leg like a squirrel. "He _doesn't._ Last time he was up there, he punted me in the nose."

"Angels do not _punt,_ _Dean,_ " Castiel retorts, but Impala is already hooking the angel onto her shoulder, bracing him with a palm as he settles onto the higher perch.

"Let's go, kids," she chuckles. "The interstates are waiting."


End file.
